The drive back from the Sterling estate was a universe away from the tense, strategic journey they had taken there. The silence was no longer one of shared anxiety, but of shared shock. It was a dense, vibrating thing, filled with the echo of Ethan's raw confession in the sun-drenched conservatory. I wasn't playing. The three words were branded onto Clara's mind.
She sat beside him, staring out at the passing scenery, her entire being alight with a terrifying, exhilarating energy. She kept replaying the moment: the look in his eyes, the raw vulnerability that had stripped him of all his architectural precision, leaving only the man behind. He hadn't been playing the part of the proud partner. He hadn't been faking the seamless teamwork. He had meant it. And that knowledge changed everything.
It meant that the hand on her back had been more than a performance. It meant the quiet admiration in his eyes had been real. It meant that his jealousy, as irrational and possessive as it had been, came from a place of genuine, albeit deeply buried, feeling.
She risked a glance at him. He was gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles white, his jaw set in a hard, unforgiving line. He was furious. Not with her, she realized with a jolt, but with himself. He was a man who had built a fortress around his heart, and he had just willingly handed her the blueprints and pointed out the weakest wall. He had lost control, and for a man like Ethan, that was the ultimate sin.
When they finally arrived back at the familiar, chaotic embrace of Artisan's Quarter, the tension had coiled into a near-unbearable knot. He helped her get a sleeping Leo out of the car seat, their movements synchronized and silent, the practiced ease of it a stark contrast to the roiling turmoil beneath the surface.
At their apartment doors, the inevitable moment of parting stretched into an eternity. This was where the performance ended and reality was supposed to resume, but they no longer knew where one began and the other left off.
"Thank you," Clara whispered, her voice barely audible. It felt like an entirely inadequate thing to say. Thank you for what? For a masterful performance? For securing your promotion? For confessing something that has just turned my entire world on its axis?
Ethan simply nodded, his gaze fixed on the sleeping child in her arms. He couldn't seem to look at her. It was as if meeting her eyes would force him to confront the truth he'd so recklessly unleashed.
"The brunch was a success," he said, his voice clipped, formal. He was retreating again, hiding behind the sterile language of their pact. "You were… convincing."
"So were you," she replied softly.
He finally lifted his gaze to hers, and his eyes were dark with a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Regret, longing, anger, fear.
"Clara…" he began, his voice rough, then stopped. He shook his head, a gesture of profound self-recrimination. "The terms of the contract are unchanged. Monday. 0900 hours."
He was rebuilding his walls, desperately trying to put the truth back in its box. He was reminding her, and mostly himself, that this was a transaction. But it was too late. They had both seen what lay behind the facade.
He gave her one last, haunted look, then turned and entered his apartment, the click of the door sounding louder than ever before.
Clara leaned against her own door, her body trembling. She carried Leo to his crib, her movements automatic, her mind a whirlwind. She sank onto her sofa, the silence of her apartment a stark canvas against which his words replayed themselves. I wasn't playing.
It wasn't a declaration of love. It was something far more potent. It was an admission of authenticity in a world of lies. He felt something real for her, something that went beyond the confines of their absurd Google Doc. And the terrifying, exhilarating truth was that she felt it too. The grudging respect had morphed into genuine admiration. The physical awareness had blossomed into a sharp, undeniable desire. The feeling of being on his team had felt more right, more real, than any relationship she had ever known.
She pulled out her phone to text Maya, to try and articulate the earthquake that had just shaken her foundations. But what could she possibly say? My fake boyfriend just admitted his feelings aren't fake, and now I'm terrified because I think mine aren't either?
She dropped the phone. There were no words for this. The pact had been a shield, a set of rules that made their proximity safe. But now, the shield was gone. Every future interaction, every shared cup of coffee, every 9 AM handover would now be charged with this new, dangerous knowledge.
They had passed the test. Ethan would likely get his partnership. She would get her childcare and finish her project. On paper, their arrangement was a resounding success. But as Clara sat alone in the growing twilight, she knew, with a certainty that was both a thrill and a terror, that they had just failed in the most spectacular way possible. They had failed to keep it simple. They had failed to keep it business. And she had no idea what came next.